


There's a hole where something was

by orphan_account



Category: Social Network (2010)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:45:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Months of fingers hovering over familiar buttons, pressing at them of their own accord, smashing the phone back into its holder before the press of that last number and breathing into restrictive lungs that refuse to unclench ‘til they breathe in that familiar scent of lemon-mint cologne and freshly dry-cleaned suits).</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a hole where something was

**Author's Note:**

> First fic here. Because I'm still too fucking broken up over this film to just leave it. HELP ME. I CAN'T MOVE ON.  
> But yeah, I don't know where this came from, I'm supposed to be writing up my first word count for NaNoWriMo but HA.

It was only a few hours after Wardo had smashed Mark’s laptop and a fuckload of a day’s work into pieces back at the offices, that Mark realised he was really, really gone. Entirely, terrifyingly gone. Wardo broke the thing to pieces and left in pieces himself and he was so, fucking _gone_.

And Mark was fucking terrified.

And Mark was empty. It made no sense how and it was just about the scariest thing he’s ever felt. But he felt so, so empty and frozen where he was, shirt in shaking hands as the realization of the gaping loss shook him down and disentangled the comfort of Wardo’s missing presence.

He stood there, shirt in hand, and clutched it tighter and tighter ‘til the fabric practically screamed for release against his hold. He clutched at the faded blue of the material, willing the presence of the man who once filled it back into his space; back into his life; back into his reach.

But the shirt stayed empty.

(It was the night Mark had met Wardo’s parents for the first time. Fidgety and entirely underdressed, as always, and Wardo had just laughed and tugged at Mark’s overused Harvard hoodie. “Off,” and he smiled that sweet, sweet smile at the quirk of Mark’s left brow. “Don’t get excited,” the ring of a lost laugh to his voice as he walked off, shuffling around dress shirts on his hanger as Mark obeyed, a smile of his own creeping at the edges of stubborn lips.

He found him a blue dress shirt, faded and too pale for Mark’s dark liking. But Wardo insisted it brought out his eyes, “You look dashing as ever, Mark. Now stop bitching,” the bite in the words entirely too absent to be taken to heart, and Mark’s a little too distracted to care just then, having too much trouble tucking in his shirt properly. Wardo catches sight of his difficulty and snorts, smiling dearly back at the glare Mark shoots at him.

He ends up meeting Wardo’s parents in seventy-percent Wardo clothes; jacket and dress shirt both Wardo’s (the pants remained his because he refused to wear Wardo’s uncomfortable, shit pants.

(“Next, you’ll be making me switch into your boxers too.”

“If I’m gonna be getting you out of your boxers, Mark, it won’t be for a family dinner.” And yeah, okay, what the _fuck_. Wardo sometimes says these _things_ and Mark spends no less than an hour dwelling on them and _what the fuck_.)

They get home, Mark unbuttons two to three of the shirt’s buttons because “ _it’s killing me!_ ” “You’re being a child, Mark.” “I’m being human.” “Drink your damn beer.” They get home and Wardo grins at Mark from where he’s standing by the fridge, like he knows the secrets of the world (and sometimes, when Mark gets himself a little too stupidly lost in those oak brown eyes of a man who could make magic in the snap of a goddamn finger with that smile of his, sometimes he thinks Wardo does hold the secrets of the world. Of Mark's world, if nothing else).

“My mom likes your shirt.” And that’s not all. Mark knows that tone, that quirk of the lips. He lifts both brows in question and Wardo’s grin breaks out a little more. “She likes it ‘cause she got it for me last year.” And oh, okay. “She said it looks better on you anyway.”

“A mother who lies to her own son, now that’s just messed up.”

“I like it better on you too.” And _oh_ , okay. “Keep it,” he shrugs, “Wear it. You need better clothes anyway.”

“I don’t wear this shit, Wardo. I’d be taking it off in two seconds.”

Wardo shrugs again, this time with a smile he seems to try and fight off - fails. “You should definitely keep it.” And nods, like it’s decided.

Mark keeps it.)

And Mark clutches at it again, tight. Tighter. Tight.

And the phone rings.

\----

And the phone rings.

Hope, pray, shut his eyes too tight for comfort.

“Hello?” _Please._

“Mark!” Dustin. Right. “You’re missing the fucking party, come down! Everyone’s ‘sssking ‘bou-you!” He’s already pissed, Jesus.

Deep breath, and “I’ll be right there.”

He drinks himself into a state of hopeless bliss, dressed in a smart-looking, pale blue dress-shirt, and when the alcohol’s broken him almost entirely, dials a number into his phone, the pattern of the numbers being one he’s missed pressing at for far too long. (Months of fingers hovering over familiar buttons, pressing at them of their own accord, smashing the phone back into its holder before the press of that last number and breathing into restrictive lungs that refuse to unclench ‘til they breathe in that familiar scent of lemon-mint cologne and freshly dry-cleaned suits).

And the voice at the end of the line...the voice at the end of the line strangles the air out of his system.

“We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been...”

He’s so, fucking _gone_.

And the shirt’s still killing Mark.


End file.
